POETRY
shall we find any rest?
“shall we find any rest?” read by Sarah Watkins.
calloused fingers with cavernous cracks
dark dirt wedged in the beds of split nails
a gaping hole in the dry dirt will release a devastated groan
shall we find any rest?
bony wrists will press tightly together to feel the throbbing of a pulse
eyes will lift toward the bright and glorious sun
a drop of cool rain will fall from a cloudless sky to the dry, waiting tongues below
He shall find us
Uriah
“Uriah” read by Sarah Watkins.
The soldier will not go to his home.
A carpet in the doorway of the king’s
extravagant palace, the soldier
lays his matted hair on the cold, hard stone.
He cannot relax.
He is safe under the watch of the king’s
guardsmen, who keep the king as the king
keeps the soldier’s home, but he cannot be
lax while brothers bleed.
They are dying on the field. Their wives wait
for their safe returns; some wait in vain.
The king said the soldier’s wife waits at home.
He will not go now.
The soldier will not go to his home.
In spring, the kings of nations march to war.
The soldier’s king once did. The great king
would wield his sword and cry triumphantly,
“The Lord of Armies
is God over Israel!” — and now, there is
candlelight cast from the large palace
window, down onto the white stone beside
the soldier’s armor.
In the yellow glow, a small mouse scuttles
across the path into the light. From
the window, a cat watches; the king’s
shadow swallows the
cat’s, and the light goes out. There is silence.
The soldier twitches in his sleep, dreams
that he hears his wife’s soft weeping. Ah, but
no, she is not there.
The soldier will not go to his home.
An Arkansas native, Sarah Watkins is an educator by trade and a writer by necessity. She currently resides in northeast Arkansas with her husband. Her work has recently appeared in Applause Literary Journal.
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